


Tension

by cranperryjuice



Series: Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Prison Barge, Sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27352654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cranperryjuice/pseuds/cranperryjuice
Summary: Geralt and Iorveth spar.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Iorveth
Series: Tumblr Prompts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997596
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	Tension

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Training turned Tension + A Big Damn Kiss + “Kiss me while everyone’s looking.”

The prison barge inched its way toward Aedirn on calm waters, and by the second morning Iorveth was itching to _do_ something. He paced the deck, squinting against the sunshine, and shook his head at the piece of bread one of his men held out to him.

For all of his worry over the kidnapped witch, Geralt, for his part, was kneeling with his eyes closed and his back ramrod-straight against the mast, as still as a corpse. Iorveth eyed him as he paced, getting increasingly annoyed at how _calm_ he was. And as if he could somehow hear the irritation in the sound of his footsteps, Geralt opened one eye, then the other, his pupils narrowing like a cat's against the sunlight as he followed Iorveth with his gaze.

"What?" Iorveth snapped, stopping in front of him.

"Will you spar with me?" Geralt asked calmly.

"Spar with you?" Iorveth repeated. "Why?"

One of his shoulders lifted in a brief shrug. "You're bored. Don't meet people who fight with two swords often, either. Fought well yesterday."

Iorveth shifted his weight from foot to foot, unsure what to make of the compliment. Geralt fought like a demon -- they'd held off the guards on the barge together the previous day, standing back to back against them, but Iorveth hadn't had the impression that Geralt would've struggled much on his own. Still, if he had to choose between pacing the deck like a caged animal and the thrill of a good fight... "Fine."

A few moments later they were circling each other on the deck, he with his twin swords and Geralt with his iron blade, watching each other for an opening. Some of his Scoia'tael had gathered to watch them; one snickered at some joke and Geralt's eyes flicked toward her for a split second. Iorveth surged forward, but each of his blows was parried easily. "Good," Geralt said, nodding at him from behind his sword.

It was clear he hadn't really been distracted. Iorveth frowned at him irritatedly and lunged at him again. And though he called himself a wolf, Geralt was as light-footed and quick as a cat, his yellow eyes steady on Iorveth as he dodged his blows, making himself small and difficult to hit. Iorveth tried to feint, aiming a blow at his shoulder while going for his thigh with his other sword, but suddenly a bright shower of sparks flew up between them, and he stumbled back, gasping in surprise.

"You're quick." Geralt was smiling at him, tiny sparks still clinging to his upturned palm. His voice was low and appreciative, his mutant's eyes still fixed on him, and Iorveth shook himself, raising his swords again.

"Don't be so condescending," he muttered through gritted teeth. "I can tell you're holding back."

"Fine. I'll stop." He spun his sword in his hand, eyeing Iorveth consideringly, and then the cat-like precision of his movements was gone and he came barreling at him with his teeth bared in a twisted grin, looking like a rabid wolf. Iorveth suddenly understood the moniker. He backed away from the swinging blade and barely got his own sword up in time to parry the first blow that reached him. The impact rattled up his arm, sending a dull bolt of pain shooting through him, and he only narrowly managed to duck the punch Geralt aimed at his face.

He didn't even have time to think about hitting back. Geralt's sword came down at him again and he spun out of the way of a blow that hit the deck, leaving a deep gouge in the tarred wood. He saw the fingers of Geralt's free hand move oddly and knew he was casting some kind of hex again, but he didn't know where to duck. It wasn't sparks, this time -- a burst of air hit his already sore arm, so hard it felt like a stone wall had been flung at him, and his sword clattered to the deck.

He hissed out a curse and took another step back, but Geralt wasn't letting up. He stepped back again, and again, and then he couldn't -- his back hit the mast and he threw his remaining blade up just in time. Their swords clashed again, crossed together, and Geralt leaned in close. His pupils had gone wide despite the sunshine, and he wasn't even _winded_. "That's not just sweat I'm smelling on you."

"What?" Iorveth panted out. He pushed uselessly at Geralt's sword, shaking with the effort; he might as well have tried to shove a tree over. He could hear his men jeering, distantly, and he knew just what it was the witcher could smell on him. He fought against the rush of blood that his treacherous body was threatening to send up to his face and instead tried to focus on how to gain the upper hand, but the quick jab he aimed at Geralt's stomach didn't even land. Geralt's hand caught his wrist, hard enough to bruise, and he leaned in even closer.

"What now? Gonna kiss your way out of this?" The low rasp of Geralt's voice sent a shiver down his spine. "In front of all your men?"

He could feel Geralt's breath on his mouth, now, and the heat emanating from his body. The sudden urge to _touch_ made it difficult for Iorveth to catch his breath, even with the anger that prickled at him from the mocking edge in the witcher's voice. There was little else he could think of doing, aside perhaps from dropping his sword and admitting defeat, and so he leaned forward and pressed his mouth to Geralt's.

He wasn't sure what he'd been expecting, but it wasn't a quiet, surprised grunt and then the eager parting of Geralt's lips against his. His Scoia'tael were hooting and laughing around them and yet he didn't care -- not with Geralt's fingers curling around the back of his head, pulling him even closer. Iorveth deepened the kiss, grabbing onto Geralt's jerkin with his now free hand. Witchers kissed with the same intensity they fought with, it seemed, and soon Iorveth's heart was pounding with it, lust roiling through him at the onslaught of Geralt's teeth and the scratch of stubble against his mouth.

There was the clatter of metal hitting the deck again. Iorveth mastered himself just enough to wrench his mouth from Geralt's. The iron sword lay at their feet. He laughed, breathless. "It seems I've disarmed you, vatt'ghern."

Geralt glanced down, gave a rueful snort, and yanked Iorveth's remaining sword from his hand easily. It joined his own, and then Geralt's eyes were on him again, dark and hungry as he murmured into the narrow space between their mouths. "Kiss me again."


End file.
